


Doubt Truth To Be A Liar

by boccardo_syllogism, PhryneFicathon



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-10-15 00:24:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17518703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boccardo_syllogism/pseuds/boccardo_syllogism, https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhryneFicathon/pseuds/PhryneFicathon
Summary: Sydney, soirees, and swarms of silly socialites - what's a poor undercover detective inspector to do?





	Doubt Truth To Be A Liar

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LarkAscending](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LarkAscending/gifts).



> _Doubt thou the stars are fire,_  
>  _Doubt that the sun doth move,_  
>  _Doubt truth to be a liar,_  
>  _But never doubt I love._  
>  -Hamlet
> 
> I absolutely loved the quote prompt, which was "There is no disguise which can hide love for long where it exists, or feign it where it does not," courtesy of the Duc de la Rochefoucald, and came up with about 10 ideas at the drop of a hat. This is the one that stuck. Hope you enjoy!

Benjamin Turner, Jack decided, was not at all a fan of dancing.

Jackhad been sent to Sydney because of a trail of jewel thefts similar to ones the Victoria Police Force had never been able to solve a few years earlier. He had only been tangentially involved in the investigation, with Inspector O’Shaughnessy from City North taking the lead, but enough of Jack’s constables had been purloined in an effort to halt the thefts that he’d had a working knowledge of the case. At any rate, O’Shaughnessy had retired six months ago. A detective their thief wouldn’t recognize could prove highly useful, and Inspector Philip Owens of Sydney’s finest was an old mate from when they’d still been in short trousers, so Jack had set off willingly enough.

His ready compliance had nothing to do with the fact that a certain lady detective had just happened to receive an invitation to visit a friend of her aunt’s in Sydney at the same time, of course.

Phryne had charmed Phil with absurd ease, which he had clearly expected, and smoothly inserted herself into the case, which he just as clearly had not. It didn’t throw him for long — even as a lad, Phil had always been the unflappable sort — and soon enough the three were debating various methods to catch their thief red-handed. In both Melbourne and Sydney, he seemed to strike only the highest echelons of society, and the thefts were usually discovered after a grand event.

“No wonder,” Phil said gloomily. “A big to-do means crowds of people and more anonymity to slip away.” He and Jack shared a commiserating look, both more than familiar with the tedium of taking a million and one statements with no real end product, but Phryne had brightened considerably.

“What a happy coincidence, gentlemen,” she had purred, “that I have exquisite taste in jewelry… and an invitation to the upcoming soiree at the Reynolds estate tomorrow evening.”

Phil liked the idea immediately. The Reynolds were the peak of Sydney society and their events the most opulent in town. It would be child’s play to spread the word that Phryne would be in attendance wearing a particularly opulent set from her vast jewelry collection, and no one knew Jack here — he could easily attend under an alias with a potential culprit none the wiser.

So Ben Turner, ostensibly a well-to-do man of leisure from Melbourne, was playing wallflower and watching the crowd.

“Mr. Turner!”

Jack startled. A small cluster of expensively-dressed young women were making their way across the room towards him. In the lead was the daughter of their host, who had practically undressed him with her eyes upon his arrival despite being half his age, and Jack inwardly groaned — this wouldn’t be the sort of interaction he’d be able to easily sidestep.

“Miss Reynolds,” he said, putting on his amiable Ben Turner smile. “A pleasure to see you again, though I’m afraid I haven’t yet been introduced to your companions.”

The ladies tittered coquettishly. There were only five of them, but they seemed determined to press so close that Jack took a reflexive step back until he was nearly flat against the wall. One by one they introduced themselves, and Jack made agreeable noises in turn,but a much larger part of him was horribly aware that Phryne had just entered the room and was now regarding the flock of young women assembled around him with some interest.

Oh, he was never going to live this down.

“Delighted to meet all of you, especially on such a night,” he said instead. “This certainly is grander than I’m accustomed to in Melbourne.”

“Don’t worry, you needn’t pretend,” Miss Reynolds whispered conspiratorially. “We know what’s going on.”

Jack stiffened. “You do?” Was his acting so bad that tittering socialites could see through him now? If their thief had already caught on to him and disappeared…

“Of course! You’ve been a perfect gentleman, but none of the ladies have been able to coax you into a dance, and everyone knows Betsy Cooper is the finest dancer in all of Sydney.” Several of the ladies nodded fervently at this, and Jack cursed himself for not paying closer attention when he’d been invited onto the floor. “You clearly have something more pleasant to occupy your thoughts than dancing,” she went on. “Why, Mr. Turner, it’s plain to see — you’re a man in love!”

Jack stared at her.

It… wasn’t an entirely illogical assumption. If he really _had_ been Benjamin Turner, idle gentleman of leisure, it might even have been true. The problem was, he couldn’t exactly tell them that he was in fact a police officer rather more preoccupied with trying to arrest a thief whose suspected victims stretched from Perth to Sydney than some sop pondering an unlucky affair of the heart. He couldn’t risk anything alerting the culprit that the police were so close.

There was nothing for it, then — he would have to play along, and hope that he could be convincingly boring enough that they’d lose interest quickly.

The mix of eager and expectant smiles he was facing from Miss Reynolds and her fellow ingenues did not fill him with confidence, however.

“It is?” he said weakly, hoping against hope his audience would mistake his unease for a lovesick suitor’s embarrassment at being caught mooning over his sweetheart. He nearly sighed in relief when they exchanged a number of pitying looks, clearly deciding he needed all the help he could get.

Wonderful.

“Women just know these things, dear,” Mrs. Lowry said, patting him on the shoulder rather patronizingly. “Now, tell us all about her.”

At that moment, Phryne drifted into view over Miss Reynolds’ shoulder. With a flute of champagne in hand — and easily within earshot — she settled against a convenient mantel to ostensibly watch the dancers, but Jack didn’t miss her pointed wink.

So _that’s_ how it was going to be, was it? He readjusted his plan — if she was this blatant about preparing to tease him later, he might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.

“Is she beautiful?” the excitable Mrs. Foster pressed.

“Very,” Jack conceded, hiding his smile at Phryne’s clear delight in the distance. “And she knows it.”

“And charming?”

“Of course. Clever, elegant, witty, all of that too.” Christ, if his constables paid half as much attention to him as these busybodies were doing, City South’s solve rate would be through the roof. “I never get a chance to catch my breath around her, but I rather think she prefers it that way.”

“But surely that’s not why you love her, Mr. Turner,” Miss Parsons cried earnestly.

Jack paused. He’d fallen in love with Phryne Fisher much longer ago than he was willing to admit to her, much less these starry-eyed gossips, but he had never really tried to reduce it to distinct reasons. At first it had been enough simply to enjoy her company, but now it was such a tangled web of admiration, and attraction, and the pleasure of truly _knowing_ someone and being known in return, and a hundred other things besides, that Jack could memorize every word in the entire English language and still find himself helpless to explain how he felt about her.

But the mob of young women around him were all but leaning forward for his answer, and in the distance Phryne raised an eyebrow at what must seem an uncharacteristic hesitation. Ben Turner needed to come up with a plausible response — and quickly.

“She’s the most remarkable woman I’ve ever known,” Jack began after a moment, choosing his words with care. “She goes out of her way to offer help to anyone who might need it for no other reason than that she _can_ , and it never occurs to her to ask anything in return. She demands pleasure from every day that passes, yet she is equally determined that everyone she meets shares in it. I love her because I know every time I’m with her, some new facet of her appears that makes me fall in love all over again.” He looked up to find Phryne staring at him, looking absolutely stunned, and said his last words directly to her. “She makes me a better man.”

“Oh, how _romantic_ ,” Miss Sullivan gasped, listing heavily onto Jack’s chest and dabbing at her eyes.

The rest all rushed to agree, babbling overlapping compliments that Jack didn’t have the patience to unravel. Benjamin Turner would be turning red at the ears at such a wave of appreciation, which would no doubt cause a flurry of cooing in itself, but Jack’s attention was focused solely on the swish of Phryne’s gorgeous silk gown as she vanished into a crowd of people.

They’d been regular guests in each other’s beds ever since she’d arrived home from England. He liked to flatter himself that he was fairly adept at coaxing her to orgasm, and she certainly never missed an opportunity to return the favour. It was delightful in a way he’d half forgotten sex could be; more often than not, lately, he found himself happier than he remembered being in a long time.

But he’d never actually told her he loved her. Oh, she had to know — it wasn’t like he’d done a particularly good job at hiding it, even as far back as Foyle. Still... he rather got the impression that she wasn’t particularly comfortable with the words themselves, and so he’d been careful to keep them to himself.

Until today. And now she had vanished.

Jack’s heart sank.

“If you’ll excuse me, ladies,” he interrupted the chatter, extracting himself from the gaggle of dewy-eyed women with some haste. If he could just find her, hopefully he could apologize before it was too late…

****************

Jack finally found her ten minutes later on the veranda, pressed flat against the far wall in a clear attempt to avoid being seen. 

“It’s Poole!” she hissed.

“I — what?”

She shot him a look that expressed rather eloquent doubt about his mental capacities. “The thief, Jack — it’s Jeremy Poole!”

“The-” Jack closed his eyes. In all his worry, he’d completely forgotten they were attending this blasted soiree for a reason. “Yes, yes, of course. Are you certain?”

“Without a doubt. The maid told me she’d seen him trying to — oh, bugger, he’s coming this way!”

Quick as a flash, she tugged him forward by the lapels until he was practically crushing her against the house. “I’m sorry, Jack,” she whispered, and then her lips were on his.

She kissed him like it was their last hour on earth, like she needed him to breathe, like she was seconds away from tearing his clothes off then and there, and Jack was helpless to do anything but kiss her back. The noise he made when she lifted her leg to wrap around his waist was entirely involuntary, and Phryne smirked against his lips. It was a glorious, transcendent moment — the sort he’d found more and more common of late — until the door clicked quietly shut and Phryne instantly let go.

“We have to hurry,” she told him, suddenly businesslike. “I don’t think Poole saw our faces, but it’s late enough that he’ll likely try to leave, especially after nearly being caught earlier.”

A great cry rang out from inside the building.

Phryne cursed, and before Jack could even begin to process what had just happened, she slipped out from under his arms and dashed for the ballroom, drawing her gun from some unseen pocket of her dress.

First there was silence. Then a tremendous bang. Then a piercing scream, and Jack shook himself from his daze.

Seconds later, he wrenched open the doors to findabsolute pandemonium. At the center, a triumphant Phryne Fisher standing guard over a man groaning incoherently on the ground with shards of a truly hideous vase scattered around his head.

“Well, Jack,” she said, slightly out of breath. “You may want to telephone the police.”

****************

Hours later, after Jack had coordinated the release of a dazed but sullen Jeremy Poole into the custody of Phil Owens and his men, restored the stolen brooches to the lady of the house, and come to the horrifying realization that Miss Reynolds and her cronies were somehow even more enamored with Jack Robinson than they had been with Benjamin Turner, he wanted nothing more than to collapse into the nearest bed. He hadn’t looked at his watch in some time, but the heaviness of his eyelids told him it was very late indeed.

They’d returned to their hotel in almost complete silence, with just a glance at Phryne enough to tell him that she was every bit as exhausted as he was. The gown she was wearing was truly stunning, and he’d told her so as she put it on, but tonight was not the night to show her exactly how much he liked it.

Jack often helped her remove her clothing when they were both preparing for bed at the same time. Not always for seductive purposes, either — sometimes the clasps on her clothing were simply more easily undone by someone who could see what they were doing. It was a treasured moment of domesticity he’d all but forgotten about, and it made his heart sing every time she turned to him to present a tricky item of clothing, thoughtlessly expectant.

Tonight, however, he kept to himself. He still wasn’t sure of her reaction to the evening’s events. In the wake of such a dramatic confession, Jack rather suspected the idea of relying on someone else, however benign, would send her running scared, and so he occupied himself with smoothing every wrinkle on his tuxedo as he removed it and settling his cufflinks just so on the nightstand.

The last thing he wanted was to make her feel trapped. If she didn’t want to discuss it, he would follow her lead.

“Jack,” she said quietly.

He turned to look at her; she was already in the opulent bed she’d insisted on booking for the two of them, wearing pajamas and rubbing blearily at her eyes.

“Are you coming to bed?”

Jack loved her so much it ached, sometimes.

“In a moment,” he told her, crossing the room to turn out the lights. The room wasn’t cluttered enough to give him any trouble finding his way back to his side of the bed, even in the dark, but he hesitated before getting into the bed.

 _Enough,_ he told himself sternly. If she didn’t want him sleeping next to her, she would have made it damn clear. Phryne Fisher was not the sort to tolerate anything or anyone she didn’t want in her boudoir. He knew that from personal experience — more than once, she had told him in no uncertain terms that he was not allowed anywhere near her after he’d been out on his bicycle unless he’d showered thoroughly first.

Somewhat mollified by the thought, Jack slid under the covers. It really was an exquisite bed; he’d been on his feet most of the day, and he was so exhausted that even a kip on the floor would have been happily welcomed, but the cool sheets and fluffy pillows felt like heaven. And yet he couldn’t quite relax. The space he’d been so careful to leave between them was a no-man’s-land even a soldier couldn’t bring himself to cross, no matter how much he wanted to. This was for _her,_ he could manage-

On the other side of the bed, Phryne huffed and rolled to her side, tugging on his arm until he was pressed up behind her.

Someday, Jack thought resignedly, he’d stop thinking he ever knew what she was about to do.

He closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of her hair. She didn’t seem upset with him. That was good. But the doubt still gnawed at him.

“I’m sorry, Phryne,” he whispered into the nape of her neck, quiet enough that she could ignore it if she wanted to. “I shouldn’t have said it, and I’m sorry.”

For a minute that felt like an hour, she didn’t react. Jack had felt the hitch in her breathing, though, and something deep in his chest curled up tense and small, but then she lifted his hand from where it rested lightly at her waist and captured it in her own, tracing his knuckles with deliberate care. “But you do love me.”

Jack swallowed. “Yes.”

“Is it such a trial? You sound so melancholy.”

“No!” Jack spluttered, aghast at the very idea. “Not at all, Phryne, you know I-”

“I know,” she interrupted, audibly smiling. “You just seem… unlike yourself. Keeping your distance.”

He closed his eyes. “I thought you might want me to.”

Phryne turned in his arms, taking her time to arrange them in a position that kept them close but not oppressively so. Jack could feel the weight of her eyes on his face, though it was dark enough in their room that she wouldn’t be able to see much. Still, it eased some of the ache to be face to face, even as she sighed. “Part of me does.”

“And the other part?”

“The other part thinks months away in England was more than enough distance.”

He’d missed her so much when she was gone. Phryne had never really told him what it had been like for her; oh, he’d enjoyed her stories of the adventures she’d had, of the parties and places she’d visited, but they had all been bright and sparkling — to entertain, not share. At any rate, he’d been far too distracted by finally being with her to ask. And, perhaps, he hadn’t quite wanted to know. Just in case.

“I was worried I’d gone too far,” he admitted quietly.

“No.”

It should have been a relief to hear that. It _was_ a relief, but she was still idly stroking the lapel of his pajamas, her face pensive. Something was still bothering her, then — just not the problem he’d been worried about.

“The way you said it was different,” she said eventually. “I should have been expecting it, but I wasn’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“The reasons.”She took a deep breath.“Rene said he loved me, but it was about ...aesthetics. The lines of my body, the colours he could make me become. It was about what he could do with me, not who I was.”

Jack remained silent. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

Phryne looked up at him, no doubt reading his emotions on his face, and kissed him gently. “You’re not like that.” 

“I don’t _need_ to say it, Phryne,” he said, holding her gaze. “If it makes you uncomfortable... it’s no hardship at all.”

“No,” she said hastily. “I — I liked it.”

Jack smiled despite himself. “Did you?”

“You just caught me thoroughly off guard.” Her sudden mischievous grin flashed in the dark. “I certainly never thought Ben Turner would tell me before you did.”

“Neither did I,” he laughed, allowing himself to be pulled half on top of her. “I admit, that wasn’t quite how I had imagined it going — as someone else, in public, in front of people who don’t know us.”

“I never did get to — mmm — fully _appreciate_ Mr. Turner in his tuxedo,” she sighed wistfully, curling her arms around his neck. “Do pass on my regrets.”

“I’ll let him know,” he murmured, tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear.

It was very late, and neither of them had the energy for anything more than trading slow, gentle kisses, but there was something to be said for the sleepy intimacy of it. It wasn’t often that Jack saw her like this: chaste in her hedonism, blurry with tiredness and perfectly willing to revel in the slow interplay of breath and lips without any need to take it further.

Her fingers curled in his hair.

“How would you have done it?”

With some effort, Jack wrenched his attention from the very serious matter of pressing a thousand tiny kisses to the elegant line of her neck. “Hmm?”

“If not tonight. How would you have wanted to tell me?”

The question took him by surprise. “I don’t know,” he admitted after a moment. “I’m told it’s terribly romantic to do it under the stars, or after the perfect date, or all the other ways Collins was fretting about when he was courting your Mrs. Collins, but I suppose I’d rather have a moment that means something to us than anything conventional.”

“Really?” Phryne asked, fingers idly toying with one of the buttons on his pajama shirt. “Like what?”

“Something like this, maybe. We’ve just solved a case that’s been open for years, thanks entirely to your sharp eyesight. It’s what we do best, isn’t it? There may not be any whiskey here for a nightcap, but Phryne, there’s no place on earth I’d rather be right now than here in this bed with you.”

“Jack.”

“And, of course, there’s no one to interrupt us, especially not your Aunt Prudence-”

A slim finger pressed to his lips, cutting him off.

“Please,” she whispered, hardly more than air. “Like this.”

Jack stared at her, distantly aware that his heart was pounding like it was trying to escape from his chest. He leaned forward on their shared pillow until their foreheads met, closing his eyes at the feeling of her breath on his lips, and ...hesitated.

How many men had known the pleasures of Phryne Fisher’s bed? He’d never asked, and never would — it didn’t really matter. She’d entertained men younger than him, more handsome, more agile, more experienced, in places and ways he would never be able to match. And yet he’d never known any of her dalliances to sit at her kitchen table. He was far from the only man she’d offered whiskey to, but it was a select group indeed that had drank Mr. Butler’s cocoa, much less with Jane. Men who visited her boudoir were kept ruthlessly separate from the daily chaos of the family that had made its home at Wardlow. Somehow, without quite knowing how, Jack had found himself part of the latter.

Others had enjoyed her body. But in this moment, with her hand trembling slightly on his cheek, Jack was certain that none of them had known the pleasures of Phryne Fisher’s fiercely protected heart.

“I love you.”

She buried her head in his neck, clutching him close like he was the only thing holding her to the earth. “Jack-”

“I know,” he said shakily. The sudden wetness against the side of his neck had him blinking back tears of his own. “I know.”

_********_

“Inspector Robinson!”

Jack’s hand froze on the station door. He knew that voice.

“Miss Reynolds,” he said, taking a moment to compose himself against the looming sense of déjà vu before turning around. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

The young woman had clearly gone to some effort on her appearance. Her dress was designed to show off her every asset, and thus slightly scandalous for daytime wear, and her face was flawlessly made up. No doubt Phryne approved, but given his experience last night, Jack felt justified in being wary.

“May I introduce the Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher?” he continued before Miss Reynolds had a chance to respond. “That is, if you haven’t already met.”

Phryne smiled politely at her. “I believe we spoke briefly last night.”

“Yes, of course,” Miss Reynolds said, hardly sparing her a glance. “I’m ever so glad I found you this morning, Inspector.”

Jack frowned. “Is there something you wanted to tell the police about the case?”

“Not at all,” she simpered, stepping closer and batting her eyelashes. “I simply wanted to apologize.”

“Apologize?”

“Well, of course! You were so convincing as Mr. Turner, and I felt absolutely terrible once I realized we pressed you to come up with details about some imaginary woman on the spot. I really believed you were head over heels, but now…” She sighed, adopting a look of pouting contrition that even Collins would see through in a second. “I’d hate to think you were cross with me for distracting you.”

“Not at all,” Jack said, not knowing what else to say. He was no stranger to unexpected flirtation — especially from the endlessly provocative woman at his side — but this was perhaps the first time a young woman barely half his age had been quite so blatantly persistent about it. “It’s just part of my job.”

“Well then, Inspector,” she purred, “it’s a relief to know such skilled officers are keeping us safe.”

“Jack _is_ very dedicated to his work,” Phryne agreed, as easily as if they were discussing the weather. Her hand slid into the crook of his elbow. “I can’t tell you how often I’ve found his presence invaluable.”

She leaned up and pressed a lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth, and it took everything Jack had to stop himself from laughing out loud at the mischievous twinkle in her eye when she drew back.

Miss Reynolds stared at them in dawning horror.

With a sudden bang, the station door opened and Inspector Phil Owens poked his head out. “Ah, Jack, Miss Fisher, I was hoping you’d arrived! Come in, come in — there are a few things we should discuss.”

“Duty calls, I’m afraid,” Jack said as blandly as possible. “If you’ll excuse us?”

The young woman nodded faintly, still apparently incapable of words, and he took the chance to usher Phryne into the building before any further incidents could occur. They were deposited in an interview room that looked reassuringly similar to his own at City South before Phil was pulled aside by his senior constable.

“Just a moment, sorry,” he told them apologetically.

Jack just waved him on — he was more than familiar with the trivial details that required a detective inspector’s attention. Frankly, it was something of a relief to be on the other end for a change. It gave him a chance to start mentally composing his statement before the official process started, and the sooner they could finish that, the sooner he and Phryne would be on a train back to Melbourne.

Phryne, however, seemed to be more occupied with eyeing him rather appraisingly. That never boded well for him.

“And what, pray tell, have I done to deserve such scrutiny?” he intoned, already knowing he would regret asking.

“Nothing,” she said, all innocence, and Jack gave her a look that said volumes about exactly how much he was inclined to believe that. “I was only marvelling at your newest suitor’s taste in older men.”

He groaned.

“The poor girl, Jack! She was so delighted at the idea that she could claim your romantic heart for herself!”

Jack huffed, leaning against the table. “I’m afraid my heart, romantic or otherwise, is already spoken for, Miss Fisher.”

“Is it now?” She stepped between his legs, so close it would take just a slight tilt of his head for their lips to meet, and caressed the knot of his tie. “I rather like the sound of that.”


End file.
